


Second Thoughts

by Vrunka



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 20:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18415046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: On second thought, maybe allowing Hurk—drunk and overeager and drunk—to try and pet the bear was a mistake.





	Second Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Another Bromance Zine piece! This project was a lot of fun and so many people worked so hard on it!! If you get the chance to grab a copy of the PDF, it’s absolutely worth it!

On second thought, maybe allowing Hurk—drunk and overeager and drunk—to try and pet the bear was a mistake.

Rook feels like he’s swimming, toeing that fine line between way too inebriated and dreadfully sober; sitting in an abandoned doomsday-prepped bunker while what is possibly the largest, angriest grizzly he has ever seen rages above them. Maybe still rages. Maybe it’s gone. No sure way to tell without poking their heads out and volunteering to become an afternoon snack. While they’re all still pretty sloshed no one’s jumping for that gig, that’s for sure.

“Of all the times, lil cuz, for you to be without your flamethrower,” Hurk says to Sharky with a grin. Leaning back on the floral couch that’s been stashed against one wall, arms folded behind his head. Yeah. Yeah, they’re all still pretty drunk.

“I just want it on record,” Sharky bites back, “that I don’t bring her everywhere what with the outstanding arrest warrant with my name on it and all and that you, dear cousin o’ mine who is without such legalize restraints, could have totally brought that rocket launcher you got from your friend in Kyra—whatever.”

“Kyrat, my man, Kyrat.”

“Yeah, that. Whatever. Point is all you brought was that gold plated pea-shooter least I had a shotgun.”

Which on third thought, probably just pissed the bear off more.

Hurk chuckles. The sound of his hand smacking against Sharky’s thigh echoes against the concrete walls, meaty and fond. “I think that the police are a little more occupied with the murder cult that moved into town to be too worried about your arson warrant. Ain’t that right, Rook?”

“I’m not that sorta cop,” Rook says. “Outstanding warrants weren’t my department.”

“And like we’re friends now and all,” Sharky says, “but I don’t wanna like make that situation awkward. ‘Oh you’re my best friend in the whole world, Sharky my man,’” Sharky says, voice taking on a higher timber as he imitates Rook’s voice, “‘but now that we no longer have a doomsday prophet living in our midst, I’m gonna have to go ahead and put your ass away for reckless endangerment and property damage.’”

“Is that really what you think I sound like?”

“Honestly I think I deserve an Oscar for that performance.”

“Come on, Sharky,” Hurk says, “we both know Rook ain’t like that.”

And in truth, Rook isn’t. He doesn’t exactly know what comes after the Seeds have been uprooted from Hope County, but arresting Sharky, or Hurk, or any of the other people—good people, cornered people, his goddamn friends—is the last thing on his mind. They’ve all done things to counter the cult that no strict law-abiding citizen could stomach. They’ve had to. Vigilante justice on a county-wide scale.

“Think it’s gone?” Rook asks. Sharky and Hurk both glance over at him, then look to the ladder that leads up and out of the bunker.

 

“I dunno that I’m good and drunk enough to wanna find out,” Sharky says. “Kinda assholes prep a bunker with no booze, huh?”

“The boring kind, little cousin, the boring kind.”

Rook stands. The world beneath him seems to shift, roiling. More drunk than sober perhaps, the feeling of clarity washing away with altitude. He stumbles toward the ladder.

“It’s probably gone. We’ve been down here for like...

“Hey, hey, hey, hey now,” Sharky starts to say.

But it’s Hurk’s hand that catches Rook’s shoulder. Barely an effort from the big man to halt Rook’s charge. “Dude,” he says, “where are you even going?”

Rook only struggles against the hold for a second. He looks toward the ladder again, casting his hand out. “Up,” he says. “Out.” For some reason, now that he’s said it, that he’s thinking about it, he can feel the itch under his skin. The need to be out and up and back in the sunshine of the open world. His breathing catches in his throat, a sudden constricting in his chest. Walls of steel and concrete closing in around him.

Bear or no bear it has to be better up there than here.

The aftertaste of the alcohol is thick and stale at the back of his throat, pungent.

“Hey,” Sharky says again. He’s standing now, holding Rook’s other arm and looking concerned.

“It’s gone, probably, has to be,” Rook says. His breathing feels exaggerated. Dramatic. Heaving between each word. There’s sweat on his temples, booze sweat maybe; he won’t blame it on this sudden encroaching panic.

The cousins share a look that Rook would have to be blind not to see. Sharky’s fingers digging just a little more deeply into the meat of his forearm.

“Hey man,” he says, “come on. Just chill.”

“Yeah,” Hurk adds. “Come sit on the couch, my dude, and just breathe.” He pulls slightly, directing Rook’s momentum away from the ladder and the outside and the air. Dismantling Rook’s panicked shifting with a firm, guiding grip.

The scratchy upholstery settles along Rook’s spine as the cousins push him down into the couch. Hurk on one side, Sharky on the other. Sharky’s knee pressed tight to Rook’s thigh. Hurk‘s hand wicking the sweat from Rook’s shoulder.

“In and out, bro,” Hurk says, rubbing his hand back and forth across the slick skin. “Deep, deep breaths okay?”

Rook obeys. Inhaling. Breath whistling between his teeth. He stares up at the concrete ceiling, bare lightbulb hanging above their heads. Sharky, mumbling encouragement and patting his knee.

“It’s cool, buddy,” Sharky is saying. “We gotcha, Rook.”

And it’s true. Rook has come to rely on a lot of his newfound friends, Grace and Nick and Doc Lindsay and Pastor Jerome. Hope County has driven him to rely on others.

And none more than Sharky. And none more than Hurk.

He forces another rattling breath. Forces himself to relax back into the couch.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t be,” Hurk says.

“Yeah for what even, asshole?” Sharky adds.

Rook feels them high five over his head.

“Seriously though, Rook, don’t sweat it.”

“Yeah, lil bro, there ain’t nothing you gotta apologize for,” Hurk says. Giving Rook another shake for good measure. Enough to rattle the teeth in his head. Clicking together. Grounding.

The panic is still there. Foreign and encroaching, but it’s receding again. Drawing like a wave back from Rook’s head.

He lets himself relax even further into the surprisingly plush couch. The alcohol leaves him feeling stale, thick like cotton.

“I’m sorry,” he says again and this time it’s Sharky who bats him. Knuckles brushing playfully off of Rook’s jaw, mock cuffing. Rook rolls against the pretend punch, end up with his forehead pressed against Sharky’s shoulder. Sweat from his brow staining Sharky’s hoodie. “I just don’t like small spaces,” he says.

For a moment no one says anything. Just the three of them breathing and the click of the air filter like something alive. A heartbeat, a pulse. Hurk’s hand squeezes where it is holding Rook’s shoulder.

“I don’t much care for snakes,” Hurk says. “Used to have these monkeys on Rook Island, they’d uhh run around doin’ their monkey business and there were...I lost a lot of them to snakes. You don’t really think about how much they’re like us until they’re reaching out for your help all trapped up in snake coils.” He swallows, audible, the wet sound of his throat working. “But I uh...don’t got to worry about that too much here at home.”

More silence. Solemn almost.

And Sharky says: “I’m kinda scared of women. Like...not scared scared but like you know when they expect things from you but you’re sorta shitty and you can’t really live up to what they deserve so you just kinda light a fire in a trash can and then accidentally burn an abandoned building down and maybe get an arson warrant with your name on it?”

“I think that’s just you,” Rook says into Sharky’s shoulder. Smiling despite himself. Happy to hide his grin in the folds of the fabric.

Sharky makes a noise, rolling in his throat. “Yeah,” he says, “okay maybe.”

But it’s done it’s job. They have; Sharky and Hurk once more to the rescue. Rook sits up. He wipes his eyes, his nose, his brow and both Hurk and Sharky have the decency to look elsewhere.

“So snakes, huh? Like Indiana Jones?” Rook says with a grin.

“‘Cept I’m a much prettier lead than Harrison Ford for sure.”

“Like hell you are,” Sharky bites.

“You’re right like hell I am!”

And the bicker continues. Rook shuts his eyes and lets himself float in the ease of it.

On second thought, on third thought, the cousins always bring trouble. But it’s the first thought that counts.

And they’re the first on Rook’s list, every single time.


End file.
